Outworlder
by HQD607
Summary: A stranger visits a dusky collection of houses, communicates with the locals, and leaves. Sci-fi, spaceships, trade/barter, action, etc. If you like the prologue, comment or shoot me a PM with what you'd like to see more of!


"Outlander" they called him, because he marched in from the Wastes like a specter, his ragged, grey clothing flecked with pale ash. He was not the first, nor would he be the last to visit the small assembly of dome-houses and scrap pits, but such abnormal visitors were few enough to be worthy of notice and name. They were invariably characters, possessed either of great strength of spirit or great emptiness of soul. Pallid faces emerged from pallid domes to track the loner's progress as he wandered the sandy streets, his hooded face turning this way and that.

More aptly they might have called him "Outworlder," since he came from much farther afield than previous travelers. They drew him into Mara's den, making snapping motion with their hands like sand crabs to indicate victuals, and there he told the gathered crowd of faraway worlds covered in lapping waters, or waving trees, or glistening cities. They had no common tongue, so he told his stories with motions, with sound, and with sticks in the sand. His audience showed little interest in his stories, seemingly incapable of grasping the gravity of these alien landscapes, or perhaps unwilling to, yet they stayed and listened and watched, as if they had nothing better to do. A little girl was his only attentive listener, her eyes wide at the idea of gaseous star-fields, bright suns, and jagged, icy moons.

His needs were simple, though they could spare him little of their plain, unadorned food. He ate without complaint and bowed his head in thanks to their generosity. In exchange, he offered shiny stones, leathery tree bark, the seeds of foreign plants, and a small, transparent, glowing ball the size of a curled finger. The young girl cradled it in her dirty hands as though it might slip through them like so much water, its faint shine reflected in her yellow-flecked eyes.

He was walked through the town, its residents showing him their agri-pits and scrap heaps. They mimed their daily routines as though he were thick, not merely foreign, but if he took offense he showed none, nodding quietly. A small trail of men and women followed him as he explored. When he took an interest in the scrap piles, he was invited to sift through them by a host of shrugs and blank faces. The crowd dwindled as he dug and sorted until he emerged under a now-purple sky holding a half dozen odd objects of varied shapes and sizes. He reached into his knee-length cloak and pulled out a ball of string, offering it to the locals, who eagerly accepted the trade and invited him to look for more junk in the hopes he might gift them more treasures. But he shook his head, saddening them, and took his prizes with him as he marched back toward the Wastes. The crowd dissipated almost before he had said his farewells, suddenly incurious as they realized the brief visit was over. Only the little girl watched as he turned and strode away, the ashen curtain soon swallowing his hooded form.

He returned when the deep, purple sky once again changed to pale grey, this time carrying a black cylinder the length of his arm and as wide as his head. The locals emerged once more, blinking in confusion that he would return with something new, and not his trinkets. He removed one end of the cylinder and showed them what was inside—thin, flat circles of steel-grey complexion. Their confusion remained until he dug one gently into the sand and lifted it, fine particles curtaining down through it until only bits of sediment remained. For the first time they seemed excited by his presence, taking the discs and sifting the sands beneath their feet eagerly like children newly introduced to toys. He showed them how to stack the discs to filter their silty water and how to use the sifted sediment for their limited crops. Their opinions of him turned promptly from disinterest to reverence as he performed his sorcery, and they waved their hands toward him as in worship when he gifted them the entire cylinder. When asked what he wanted in return, he pointed, and their faces darkened in suspicion.

She sat outside for what seemed like hours but which was truly only minutes as the Outlander treated with the village elders in one of the domes. She heard exclamations, laughter, sounds of sorrow, and then singing, and was filled with excitement and fear as she knew he had been born into the community. When he emerged, he knelt before her and the two spoke their curiosity with their eyes. He began his mimicry again, asking her if what he intended was what she wanted. She nodded, fearful but full of determination and anticipation. He rose and lowered a hand, which she reached up to take. No parents came to see her off, no siblings or grandparents. No one in the village would miss her, nor would she miss them. They watched as the two strode away, neither looking back. The Outlander knelt once more at the edge of town to lift her hood and secure the cloth that guarded her mouth, dabbing at the crusts in the corner of her eyes. His bearded smile was warm, kind as he rose once more, nodding down to her. Together, they took a deep breath and walked, hand-in-hand, into the ash curtain, never to return.


End file.
